Infralove
by sparveriusx
Summary: Madara, on the verge of leaving Konoha, stumbles into an alternate reality. [Hashimada, M]
1. Chapter 1

**1.**

"I always thought blue suited you," Hashirama says, putting his chin in his hand as he watches Madara pull on his nagajuban. "Long day, dear?"

Madara makes a noncommittal noise in his throat in response. _Long day_ doesn't even begin to cover it. Another year has come and gone, and the village is still hurtling towards disaster as fast as it ever was. Maybe even faster than before. He hates this time of year; hates thinking about everything he's failed to do so far, hates thinking about the things he'll never be able to do for as long as he lives.

Hashirama yawns mightily, sliding out of his nemaki. His necklace bounces on his bare chest. He smiles rather coyly up at Madara. "Well?" he says. "What do you feel like tonight? Slow and sweet? I could get the incense from the kitchen, if you'd like. Or we could try something different—we could use those new beads—"

Madara shakes his head. "Not tonight," he mutters. "Tired." He is not tired.

Hashirama pouts, looking a little disappointed. "Okay," he says. "Come here, darling."

Madara climbs into bed next to him, shoving several pillows aside to make room for his hair. He blows out one of the candles on the nightstand, watching the little lines of smoke weave around in the air before disappearing.

"Did you and Tobirama make any progress on that jutsu this afternoon?" Hashirama says sleepily, after a while.

Madara snorts. "Hardly," he says.

"I'm so glad you're cooperating with Tobirama," Hashirama says with a smile. "I know how hard you two are working to get along. It really means a lot to me."

Madara decides not to dignify that with a response. The only thing keeping he and Tobirama from tackling each other over the autopsy table these days is their shared desire to see their younger brothers again.

"Even if I do have to take over your portion of the paperwork while you two are down in the lab," Hashirama continues, massaging his temples gently. "These grant proposals for the Academy are killing me, I swear."

Madara sighs. Not for the first time today, he feels that restless, tugging feeling in his chest: the frantic need to do anything else, be anywhere else. For a split second, he feels as if he is being watched. He glances out at the balcony. There's nothing there.

"Madara?" Hashirama says softly, blinking up at him. "What is it?"

Madara shakes his head. "Nothing," he grinds out. "I'm fine. I'm going to sleep."

Hashirama does not look convinced. Madara glowers at the window, and then abruptly smells smoke. He looks down. His chakra has left a smattering of angry burn marks all over his side of the sheets. Heat rises in his cheeks. Hashirama must be able to tell he's in a particularly foul mood, from the way he's losing control of his chakra like this. He might as well be a petulant child throwing a tantrum, in Hashirama's eyes. This thought only makes him feel worse.

Hashirama sighs. "It's as if you've been in a different world lately, Madara," he says, and oh, how Madara hates that sad, disappointed voice—he just wants Hashirama to _shout_ for once—at least he knows how to deal with _angry_ people—

"You know, Madara," Hashirama tries again, timidly.

Madara rolls over so that he's staring at the wall. "What?" he snaps.

"I love you," Hashirama says, running his fingers through Madara's hair. "I'm very grateful to have you here by my side. I couldn't have done any of this without you. I want you to know that."

"So glad I could be of use to you and your precious village," Madara mumbles, watching a very lost ladybug crawl around on the ceiling. At least the bed isn't on fire anymore.

" _My_ village?" Hashirama says. He laughs. "Madara, you and I both know this is as much your village as it is mine—"

"Don't be a fool, Hashirama," Madara snaps at the wall. It's easier to do this if he doesn't have to see Hashirama's face. "And don't take me for one, either. It doesn't matter what either of us think anymore. The village is out of our hands now."

He can tell Hashirama is frowning without having to turn around. He's not combing through Madara's hair anymore, either. Knowing he's genuinely upset him now just makes Madara feel worse. And he knows that the longer he spends here, not making up his mind about what to do or where to go, the worse he will feel.

Hashirama takes a deep breath. He sighs.

"I know winter is hard for you," Hashirama says. "It's hard for me too. You know that. But that's why we all have to try a bit harder. I'm sure that—"

"Don't pretend that I'll be able to just fix this whole mess by _trying a little harder_ , Hashirama," Madara says. "Not all of us are as lucky as _you_ are."

"Madara," Hashirama begins, his tone still infuriatingly even. "What do you mean by—"

"Oh, just _stop_ it, all right?" Madara shouts. "Stop acting like you're not upset. Why can't you just be angry at me like everybody else for once?"

Hashirama doesn't respond. He goes completely still. Madara can't bear to look at him. Instead he stares at the wall, clenching his fists under the blankets, and mentally recites all the fire jutsu formulas he can think of.

 _Katon Gōkakyū—that's good for short-range attacks and diversions; leaves user open to attacks from behind while facing multiple opponents. Supplement with Haijingakure for surprise attacks. Then there's Gōka Messhitsu: quite flashy but not as effective as Gōka Mekkyaku. Gōka Mekkyaku: extremely powerful, but requires a lot of chakra. That's ram, bird, dragon, ox, snake, boar, tiger—_

"Is that what you want?" Hashirama says, finally. "For me to be angry?"

Madara doesn't really know how to answer that. He fiddles with the corner of the singed bedspread, holding his breath.

"The truth is, I don't really _want_ to be angry at you," Hashirama says mildly. Madara chances a look. Hashirama's eyes are wide and curious and kind. "I meant what I said, Madara. I have faith in you. I know that _you_ know I'm not some naive fool trying to soothe you with empty words."

Madara huffs and looks away again. Damn Hashirama. He's doing it _again,_ that thing where he acts maddeningly superior and unflappable and makes Madara look like a complete idiot at the same time. _I'm tired of chasing after you,_ Madara lets himself think at last, _tired of being left in your wake like this—I want out, I want out, I want out—_

"Sometimes I wonder," is what he says.

"Get some rest, Madara," Hashirama murmurs. "You'll feel better in the morning. I'll make you breakfast in bed. And then, as soon as we finish our meeting with the Daimyo, I'll take you out to dinner for your birthday!"

Madara feels sick. _No, you won't,_ he does not say to Hashirama, _because I am leaving the village tonight._

"Hmm," he says instead. He pulls the covers up to his chin. Hashirama is asleep within minutes, his arms folded securely around Madara's chest. Madara does not return his embrace.

* * *

Madara can't sleep. He feels as if something is tugging on the edges of his subconscious, like a nagging itch, a paper-thin knife dragging along his skin. Hashirama rolls over in his sleep, his mouth open slightly, his long hair spilling over three pillows. Madara watches his chest rise and fall for a while, feeling somehow more awake and alert than he had felt all afternoon in Tobirama's lab.

He almost reaches out to cup Hashirama's face with one hand, wanting to press his lips to his forehead one last time, but something stops him. Silently, he slides out of bed. The floor is cold beneath his bare feet. He crosses the room, shivering, and steps out onto the balcony.

The village is silent. Even the hardiest of the night owls have all gone home; all the bars are closed, and only a few sparse lights are still glittering here and there on the horizon. Madara looks up at the stars, winking coldly in the sky, and at the dark hole that he knows is the new moon. On the cliff, Hashirama's stone face stares coldly out over the rooftops. It looks so unlike him, bathed from below in the harsh yellow lights from atop the academy.

There's that tugging feeling again. The back of Madara's neck prickles and he turns around in a hurry. This time he thinks he catches a glimpse of something dark and wraithlike darting out of sight around a corner, something human-shaped that moves with a sort of fluid grace that no ordinary human could possibly manage.

Madara's heart pounds. He really _could_ just leave—quietly, without fanfare, in the middle of the night, like he deserves. He has failed. _No,_ he corrects himself quickly. The village has failed him. Maybe not yet; maybe not today. But he knows exactly what is coming. Before long, the Senju clan will control Konoha, and war will unfold on a larger scale than ever before, and deep in the underbelly of the village, a new darkness will form and spread.

Madara makes up his mind in an instant. He steals back inside, pulls on his mantle, and sits down next to Hashirama on the bed in order to wrap his shins. The familiar motion grounds him, and he's surprised by how calm he feels about the whole thing. Then he slips on his sandals, wraps his cloak around his shoulders, and casts one last look back at Hashirama's sleeping form before taking off into the night.

* * *

He stops at Nakano Shrine first. In the silent meeting hall, he lights a candle for Izuna, and kneels in its bobbing light to trace his fingers over the familiar words engraved on the stone tablet before him.

 _Seeking stability, one god split into yin and yang…it is these opposing forces, light and dark, operating together, that give rise to all things in creation…_

When did he first start feeling eclipsed by Hashirama?

When did he stop basking in Hashirama's light and start feeling blinded by Hashirama's uncannily magnetic power? When did the once-paper-thin difference between them widen into this unnavigable chasm? Was it when Hashirama was named the Hokage? Or when the war had claimed Izuna, while Hashirama's last remaining brother had survived? Or has he been unconsciously battling this nagging feeling of inferiority for as long as he and Hashirama have been friends? Adored, admired, beloved Hashirama, with his easy smile and his comfortable warmth…and he, Madara, who has attracted nothing but disgust and scorn from the Uchiha clan; who can only come to Nakano shrine to mourn for his brother in the dead of night, when he's certain no one else will be there—

Someone is standing behind him.

He whips around, disturbing the flame from the candle on the floor. Shadows bounce wildly along the walls. There is a humanoid shape crouched at the back of the room, blending in almost perfectly with the fluttering shadows. He's sure it's the same thing he saw from the balcony. But as soon as he locks eyes on it, it oozes down into the floorboards and out of sight. He frowns.

 _Madara,_ he hears, in the back of his mind. The candle flickers madly. The chakra he's sensing from the dark figure isn't familiar, but—maybe—He knows who he _wants_ it to be, but that would be impossible…but still…

"Izuna?" he says, feeling foolish as soon as he says it out loud. Of course it isn't Izuna, because Izuna is dead and gone and never coming back, because of Madara's own foolishness. But if there is even the slightest chance that he can reverse fate, make everything right again, he'll take it.

The candle settles. The thing is gone. Light and shadow…yin and yang…He and Hashirama…and Izuna—

He blows out his candle. Smoke curls up from the floor. Yes, he thinks. He knows _exactly_ what he has to do.

* * *

Up on the cliff, an owl is calling somewhere out of sight. He casts one look back at the village, at the familiar array of towers and spires that Hashirama had built, so long ago now, before resolutely turning around.

 _You are making the right choice,_ says that voice again, sounding like teeth grinding against bone. This, of all things, gives him pause. He sits down in the grass. Something jabs him in the hip as he crosses his legs underneath him, and he scowls and reaches into his pocket and pulls out his leaf headband.

 _No,_ urges the voice. _Go on. Do not falter._

Madara grits his teeth. He can't move. Maybe he's made the wrong choice, after all. He ties the damn thing around his forehead and curls up on the ground, at the base of the nearest sycamore tree.

 _I'll leave on my own terms,_ he thinks, and hopes the voice can hear him. The moss beneath his body feels like thousands of tiny, soft stars; the bark is surprisingly smooth against his left cheek. It feels as if Hashirama is watching over him in his funny way, from somewhere far away, and it irks him to know he'll never rid himself of Hashirama's influence for as long as he lives. They have touched each other's lives in a profound way, and now that Madara has known him, there is no going back…

Hashirama is the last thing on his mind before sleep claims him.


	2. Chapter 2

**2.**

Madara sleeps fitfully. He's had worse nights, all things considered, but when he wakes up his clothes are damp and the clifftop is drenched in a thick scrim of white fog. He shifts uncomfortably in his wet cloak. A cold, sparse rain is falling, and the sky is a delicate pale gray. By his estimations, it's just after sunrise. There is a distinct lack of wind and birdsong, which makes his heartbeat seem much louder than usual.

He's a little embarrassed at the course of last night's events. Was he overreacting? Maybe he should go back. He could probably still make it all the way home, and Hashirama would never even know he was gone…Madara doesn't know, even now, if he's done the right thing.

He winces as he sits up. Something feels distinctly _off,_ somehow _._ He can't put his finger on what it is. It is as if the entire universe has shifted about three inches to the left. His head is buzzing, and as he looks around, squinting into the mist, he feels a horrible pang of dread. The sycamore tree, the loose clumps of dirt up on top of the cliff, the starlike moss that he had fallen asleep on last night, even the air itself—it is all steeped in the darkest, most foul chakra that Madara has ever felt. It makes his heart race and his head pound, and as he stands up from the patch of moss and tries to regain his bearings, a hot trickle of blood drips out of his nose. He mops it up with his sleeve, clenching his jaw in what he thinks might be terror. This chakra is so vile that it's giving _him_ a nosebleed.

 _Edo Tensei_ , he thinks. _Tobirama, what have you done?_

His mind races as he sprints down from the cliff, barely able to see his hand in front of his face in the fog. He's sure there's residual blood crusted under his nose, but it hardly matters; he doubts the village's opinion of him will significantly lessen over a bit of dried blood _—not that the village's opinion of him can get much lower,_ his brain helpfully supplies. He jumps from the roof of the aviary and lands hard in the street, panting.

The key to Tobirama's apartment doesn't work. Madara furiously jiggles it around in the lock, trying to coax it into cooperating, but it won't budge. "Come on!" he shouts at the door. Did Tobirama change his locks _overnight?_ Truthfully, Madara wouldn't put it past him.

There is a certain freedom in being the proverbial black sheep of Konoha, Madara thinks, as he kicks Tobirama's door clean off its hinges and dashes into his apartment. He can't imagine what people would say if they saw Hashirama breaking and entering like this.

Not only did Tobirama change his locks, but he also seems to have redecorated, if the magenta shag carpet and floor-to-ceiling poster bearing the words _Tsuki no Kuni Wet'n'Wild World Tour_ are any indication. The apartment also seems to have gotten mysteriously messier since Madara saw it last. He kicks aside a silk slipper in mild disgust, and winces from the copious crumbs scattered across the carpet, looking like ginger dandruff on a bright magenta cat.

"If this is your idiot brother's idea of a birthday prank, I'm going to be very pissed off," Madara shouts. "The faster you explain yourself, the better." He can sense Tobirama's chakra, below him, somewhere in the lab. He thunders down the stairs and throws the door open. Tobirama is bent over something at the desk. He looks up and sees Madara. His mouth pops open.

"What did you do?" Madara half-yells, trying to catch his breath. "What did you _do,_ Tobirama?"

"Well, this is certainly interesting," Tobirama says, crossing his arms over his chest and tipping back in his chair in a very un-Tobirama-like way. "You sure have some nerve coming back here after all this time."

Madara blinks. "Excuse me?"

"I _said,"_ Tobirama says, cupping his hands over his mouth and beginning to shout, "You sure have some nerve coming back h—"

"I _work_ here, you utter imbecile!" Madara hisses, stabbing a kunai into the table. Tobirama jumps at the impact. "Let me in and let me see what you did. You promised not to work on Edo Tensei without me, so just—"

Tobirama bristles. He whips out a kunai of his own. "What the hell are you talking about?" he says. "I may not have a personal vendetta against you like _some_ people I could mention, but I really won't hesitate to kill you, you know—"

"Don't play dumb!" Madara shouts, seizing Tobirama's collar and giving him a hearty shake. "You must have seriously _pissed_ on some spirit or deity or something, you idiot, now hurry up and undo whatever you just did before some shinigami steps through the veil and smites us both!"

"What the fuck?" Tobirama says, clearly affronted. "This is top grade rabbit fur, get your hands off of it—"

Madara does a double take. He quickly takes his hands off of Tobirama's collar, sending him overbalancing out of his chair and onto the floor.

"What the _hell_ are you wearing?" Madara says, because _really_.

Tobirama groans, crawling onto his hands and knees. He's dressed in a ripped fishnet top and buckled sandals, along with the shiniest, tightest leather pants Madara has ever seen—including a pair that Izuna had worn (and then peeled off, after one too many drinks) at a particularly rowdy bonfire party, a very long time ago. And that's not all—the scattered scars on his arms look distinctly different from the ones Madara remembers, and he's wearing what looks like an entire tube of eyeliner, which is caked around his eyes so severely that he resembles an overtired raccoon.

"Oh, fuck," Madara mutters. "Oh, no. Oh, holy hell."

He's not sure how he didn't notice it at first, but Tobirama's lab has undergone an even more severe transformation than his apartment upstairs. Gone is the neat autopsy table, carefully labeled vials and beakers, and pristine shelves full of scrolls. Now most of the space is taken up by wildly messy bookshelves stuffed with brightly-colored paperback novels, which are spilling over in places onto stacks on the floor. Countless crumpled papers litter the area under the desk; Madara can spot at least five cold cups of tea abandoned in various places throughout the room, and most of the desk is taken up by a large scroll, upon which _Senju Tobirama_ is written about fifty times— _is he practicing writing his signature?_ Madara thinks _._ He reaches over the desk and seizes the other, smaller piece of paper that Tobirama had been poring over when he first arrived.

"NO! IT'S NOT FINISHED YET!" Tobirama bellows, unbridled panic in his voice, diving over the table at him. Madara dodges him easily and begins to read it. His eyebrows furrow together, before shooting up towards his hairline.

 _Tobio's scarlet eyes gazed deep into Fuyuki's smouldering blue ones, the color of sapphire pools of tears. Fuyuki gasped, his muscular abs glistening with sweat as he caressed Tobio's pale cheek. His own breath caught in his throat at the bitten-off noise. He pulled back, unbuttoning Fuyuki's trousers and pushing them down out of the way, then cupped him with one hand. Then he curled inwards again, bending over Fuyuki's hips, and left a trail of deliciously wet kisses at the hem of his boxers…_

"What the fucking hell is going on here," Madara says weakly, dropping the paper. The key. The shag carpet. Tobirama's lab transformed into this den of bizarre promiscuity. "This isn't right. None of this is right—where _am_ I—"

The back of Madara's neck prickles. He gives an involuntary shudder. Then, without warning, a jolt of incredible, burning pain flashes through his head. He staggers, catching himself on the edge of the table, and squeezes his eyes shut. Its source is quite far away, but he can tell it's the same horrible chakra he's been sensing since he woke up. Madara clenches his teeth, feeling sick. This chakra feels like bones charred to ash, like skin and muscle melting like wax, like rotted eye sockets weeping old blood, like steely talons tearing into burning flesh—and if he didn't know better, he'd think—

 _That's my father's chakra,_ Madara thinks, pressing his sleeve under his nose once again to stem the flow of blood. As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he realizes his mistake. A shiver runs down his back. It's not Tajima's chakra; it's his _own._

Tobirama staggers up from the floor, his eyeliner smudged, his face the color of one of Hashirama's heirloom tomatoes.

"You really don't know where you are?" he says, panting. "It's as if you're from a different world, or something."

Tobirama might as well have dropped an anvil directly in front of his face. Every pore of Madara's body freezes. He is seized with an insane urge to drop to his knees, screaming.

Madara mentally shakes himself. He attempts to gathers his wits. _This sort of thing must happen more often than it seems,_ he thinks. Hell, just yesterday, he and Tobirama were talking about the practical applications of space-time ninjutsu over the autopsy table. But if the Tobirama in _this_ world is a musician and not a scientist, does space-time ninjutsu even _exist_ in this world? Or has someone else invented it? How is he _here?_

Tobirama is looking at him very strangely.

"Humor me," Madara says slowly, surprised at how calm his voice sounds. "Say I _am_ from a different world. Say I was dicked around—I mean, cast into this universe by forces unknown, for example. What happened to the Madara who was already here?"

Tobirama considers him for a moment, frowning.

"You _left,"_ he says at last. "Six months ago. Almost killed my brother. Emotionally, I mean. Well—not that he wasn't already emotionally constipated before, but—"

" _What?"_ Madara snaps. He feels like he's been kicked in the chest. "I—I did?"

Tobirama starts to laugh. "Oh, shit," he says. "Wait till my brother sees you. He's gonna be _pissed."_

"Take me to him," Madara demands.

"Um, I _don't_ think that's a good idea," he says. Madara groans. Even in this world, Tobirama _still_ treats him like an obnoxious child. But at the same time, he feels a vague trepidation rising in his throat. This does not tally at all with Madara's previous dealings with Tobirama, whose incessant need to constantly check on his brother had resulted in some very memorable encounters over the years, including one occasion when he had walked in on Madara and Hashirama engaged in a very private activity on the Hokage's desk.

"Fine," Madara says, turning around and marching out the door, "I'll go myself. I'm sure your brother would be _ever_ so disappointed to learn that you failed to apprehend me when I showed up at your house, and then proceeded to allow me to break into the Academy and wreak havoc on the offices—"

Tobirama groans.

"Fine, fine," he says. "Listen, I need to borrow 500 ryō from my brother anyway. Come on, let's just get this over with."

He stoops, his leather pants squeaking, and very carefully reaches under his desk to pick up the page of his novel that Madara had dropped. He folds it up and gently slides it into his pocket.

Madara watches him, bemused. "I can't decide if I like you better or worse here," he mutters.

Tobirama perks up. "What am I like in your world?" he says, rubbing his hands together eagerly.

"Oh," Madara says, caught off guard by the question. "Well, you look pretty much the same. But in my world, you're a necromancer."

"Oh, _man,"_ Tobirama says. "Whatever that is, it sounds pretty fucking sick."

* * *

"We're lucky there aren't that many people around," Tobirama says as they approach the center of the village. "But keep your hood up. It would be a real pain in the ass if someone recognized you here."

Even though the sun is coming up, the village is still shrouded in fog; barely any of the shops are open yet. Tobirama gazes fondly at the bar as they pass by. Gradually the Academy appears, looming through the fog like a scarlet beacon.

"It's a little early for Hashirama to be at work, isn't it?" Madara says as they walk. "You're sure he'll be in there?"

"Oh, definitely," Tobirama says. "He never leaves that damn office. He's probably been in there all night."

Madara frowns. This behavior seems most unlike the Hashirama he knows. "What is your brother like in this world, exactly?" he asks, a little wary of the answer.

Tobirama has to think about that for a while.

"Tall," he says at last. He taps his chin with his index finger. "Tone-deaf."

He pauses at the door to the front office, holding up one hand. "Actually, as much as I'd _love_ to see my brother's reaction to you showing up out of the blue like this," he says in a would-be casual voice, "I really don't feel like dealing with him right now. You go in. Just make sure you stay out of sight, and all that."

He shoves Madara through the door. "Can you get that money from him for me, though?" Tobirama calls, and slams the door with a resounding _bang._

"Thanks," Madara mutters. Now that he thinks about it, it's actually a little comforting that Tobirama is still as insufferable in this world as he is in Madara's own. He makes a mental note to pour salt in Tobirama's coffee some morning if he ever makes it back.

The offices are eerily quiet. The front hallway is darker and narrower than he remembers it, but (Madara thanks every deity he can think of) the layout of the place remains relatively unchanged. He slips off his hood, not sensing anyone in the immediate vicinity, and starts to walk. Embarrassingly, he doesn't even make it to the end of the hallway before he's intercepted.

"Come with me," says an unfamiliar voice, rough and deep and angry, _"now."_

Madara curses. So the Black Ops still exist in this reality. A strong hand claps over his mouth; an elbow crooks around his neck, cutting off his windpipe; then he finds himself being pulled forcefully backwards down the hall towards the underground vault that houses the village's archives. Through the haze of foul chakra that's been pervading his senses all morning, he can detect a hint of Hashirama's warm, earthy chakra, somewhere close. He just has to get to him.

The steel door to the archive room slams shut behind them and they are plunged into total darkness. A kunai is pressed to his throat.

"Did anyone outside this room see you?" the voice asks, in a low, severe rumble. "Are you here alone?" The man gives him a shake. _"Answer me."_

Madara grits his teeth. It must be some sort of powerful genjutsu that's making the room so dark; the air in here feels strangely more solid than it should. He doesn't have _time_ for this. He can't see his attacker, but he can still sense his chakra with the Sharingan. If he steps here—and then feints to the left—

The man reacts exactly as if he's read Madara's mind. Madara slips out of his grasp, goes to stomp on the man's left foot as hard as he can, but he pulls it out of the way just in time and Madara's heel collides sharply with the cement floor. They both whirl around each other in the dark; Madara draws a kunai from his pouch and aims it for the man's face, but he blocks it just in time. Both blades lock—Madara can feel the heat from the sparks—then with his free hand Madara twists the man's shoulder around until he cries out and his kunai clatters to the floor. Madara kicks it out of the way. He _knows_ how the man is going to react, somehow—right hook, then switch feet, careful of his knee—it's not the swooping clarity of Sharingan in action, exactly; it's more of a nagging feeling that he's encountered this man before— _fought_ him before. They circle each other again; the man is raising his hands in what Madara thinks is defeat, and he rushes forward to deal the final blow. But it's a bluff; the man kicks him squarely in the chest as soon as he's in range, sending him sprawling into what feels like a pile of boxes, all sharp edges and splintered wood. He lies there for a moment, winded, his Sharingan throbbing.

The man releases the bringer-of-darkness jutsu, then strikes a match and lights a tiny lantern on the table. Madara gets to his feet with difficulty, leaning on the wall for support.

The stranger is wearing a set of long red-and-white robes with scarlet flames adorning the sleeves. His dark hair reaches his chin in a blunt bob, and he's wearing thin, wire-rimmed glasses that emphasize his cold black eyes. Madara is sure he's seen him somewhere before. For a moment, he could be thirteen years old again, staring up into the grim, lined face of Butsuma Senju. But then he looks again, and reads the word _Hokage_ embroidered on the man's left shoulder, and understands, with a pang of horror, why the man feels so hauntingly, persistently familiar. Madara's mouth falls open. _"Hashirama?"_ he whispers.

The man frowns. Now Madara is sure it's him. There's Hashirama's familiar squint, and his neat, oval-shaped fingernails, and even a glimmer of his teal necklace peeking through his high collar. That's his chakra, too, or at least a very faint strain of it. Just like everything else in this world, though, it feels irrevocably _wrong._

"Hashirama, it's me," says Madara.

Hashirama's frown deepens. He doesn't move. "Prove it," he says coldly. His glasses glint in the firelight. Madara shivers. He can't remember the last time that Hashirama sounded this angry.

"It's difficult to explain," Madara says, meeting Hashirama's eyes and fighting the thrill of terror that twists through his stomach. "I _am_ Madara. But I'm not the Madara you know."

He takes a step closer. Hashirama's jaw is clenched. He seems to be holding his breath.

"And you, you're…"

Madara runs his hands down those strong shoulders, feeling the familiar muscle beneath his robes, and he looks up at that harsh, lined face, at the stern mouth and furrowed brow and those steely black eyes, so different from his Hashirama's warm dark ones.

"You're not the Hashirama I know, either."

* * *

When Madara finishes explaining, his voice is hoarse, and Hashirama is sitting quite still at the records table with his fingers steepled in front of his face.

"I was afraid of something like this," he says at last, adjusting his glasses. "We had heard rumors that he was experimenting with these sorts of reality-bending jutsus recently. I can't imagine why he'd try to summon _you_ here, though."

"Me either," Madara says truthfully.

It feels unbelievably strange to be talking to this Hashirama as if he's a stranger, when just last night he and Hashirama were lying in bed, limbs tangled together, partners in every sense of the word. Staring up at Hashirama's tired, bespectacled face, lit up from below by the tiny lantern on the table, makes Madara feel unbearably, persistently sad. Burning shame prickles in his throat. He remembers countless lazy days down on the riverbank, of skipping stones and laughing and talking and basking in each other's company; he remembers all those looks of quiet sympathy shared on the battlefield, in between parries; he remembers those quiet nights they had all to themselves, in those first, early days of the village, and how beautiful and brilliant it all felt. And then he thinks of _his_ Hashirama, wonders if he's even awake yet, wherever he is, imagines him rolling over with his eyes still closed, searching for Madara's warmth next to him in the bed and finding nothing at all.

"Madara," Hashirama says.

Madara takes a deep breath, and lets it out. "What?"

Hashirama doesn't answer for a while. He surveys Madara's lips with an oddly hungry expression on his face.

"I think," he says at last, "that you had better go see Izuna. He might be able to help you get back."

Madara's heart leaps into his throat. His mouth goes completely dry. "Izuna's alive?"

Hashirama nods. "Why?" he says sharply. "What happened to Izuna in your world?

"He—he died," Madara says. "Your brother killed him in battle."

Hashirama inhales sharply. "Something like that happened in this world," he says, "just before the village was founded. Tobirama was wounded very badly in a battle with the Uchiha. I healed him, naturally, and then you and I came together and hashed out the truce."

Madara swallows hard. He refuses to cry in front of this strange, not-quite-right version of Hashirama. "Where is Izuna now?" he says, once he's sure his voice won't quiver.

Hashirama rubs his temples. "After the Uchiha clan disbanded—"

" _What?"_ Madara cries out.

"—he ended up moving to Sora-ku. He should still be there now."

Madara feels like he's been hit in the face. "The clan _disbanded?"_

"Well, yes," Hashirama says. "After you left the village. Madara, the Uchiha clan loved you. You held them all together. A few of them still live here and there on the outskirts of the village, but most of them went off on their own."

Madara mouths wordlessly at him for several seconds. He feels as if all the air has vanished from his lungs. "They…they did?" he croaks, once his voice is working again, and then it's a frantic roll call. "Hikaku?" he says. Hashirama shakes his head. "Naori left? Hakubo? Kagami and his aunts? Naka? Sora? Yumi and her sister?"

Hashirama is still shaking his head. Madara puts his face in his hands.

"I can't believe I let this happen," he whispers. His eyes are burning. "How—how can I possibly face Izuna while he knows I'm responsible for all of this?"

"It's not that simple," Hashirama says sharply. "Many people think you were the best thing that happened to this village. Not just the Uchiha clan, either."

"How could _anyone_ think that?" Madara cries out. "I've failed _you,_ I've failed the clan, I've failed my brother—"

Hashirama stands up from his chair. "Madara," he says, his voice low and serious, "Look." He turns around, holding out his arms. The back of his robes read _Second Hokage_ in neat red lettering.

Madara's mouth falls open.

"Oh, no," Madara breathes. "You can't mean…I couldn't possibly be the—"

"Like I said before," Hashirama says grimly. "The Uchiha clan loved you. It was a close vote, but at my recommendation you were elected officially. I truly thought you would be best leader for our village. I much prefer to work behind the scenes anyway. Cut-and-dry work like this suits me fine." He gestures to the dark file cabinets behind them.

Madara wants to curl up into a ball. Guilt unfurls in his stomach. Of course Hashirama would have thought he would be the best person to lead the village. And the clan—how could he _do_ this? How could he leave all of that behind? What could possibly have been more important to him than protecting the Uchiha?

"What is it?" Hashirama says abruptly. Madara realizes his mouth is hanging open. He closes it, frowning.

"Why did I leave?" he asks, finally.

Hashirama's face is blank. "I don't know," he says. "You didn't tell me."

Madara's heart sinks. On the table, the lantern gives a tiny flicker. There is that restless feeling again.

"I'm going to Sora-ku," Madara announces, standing up from the table. "I have to see him. I—I have to talk to him. Tell him I'm sorry."

Hashirama nods gravely.

Madara pauses at the door. He needs to talk to Izuna, yes—but he also needs to ask the thing that's been floating to the forefront of his mind ever since he first laid eyes on this Hashirama—ever since he first entertained the notion of leaving Konoha, back in his own world.

"Hashirama?" Madara says, then curses himself for opening his mouth.

Hashirama's response is swift and measured. "Yes?"

Madara grits his teeth. "What was I to you," he says quietly, "before I left?"

Hashirama frowns. He looks like he's thinking quite hard.

"You were the most charismatic man I've ever known," he says, finally, staring down at the wood grain on the table as if he's trying to learn every feathery line and ringed knot by heart.

* * *

The fog has finally lifted by the time Madara steps out of the Konoha archives, shielding his face from the mid-morning sun with one gloved hand. He squints up at the cliff, at the pair of stone faces carved into it. He feels sick. His own face, proud and haughty and regal, stares back at him. He can't stand to look at it for a moment longer than he has to. Quickly, he sets off. He has a long journey ahead.


	3. Chapter 3

**3.**

He makes good time to Sora-ku, and the city is within his view on the horizon as dusk approaches. At least this place is exactly the same as he remembers it: spindly, rundown towers, standing in crowded rows like crooked teeth; glowing lanterns in shades of red and orange; tattered multicolored banners flapping over every doorway. A black-and-white cat slinks around a corner and out of sight as he steals down the alley, away from the lights at the center of the city, following the faint pulse of Izuna's chakra. He scales one of the little spires and jumps from roof to roof, searching. Izuna is really _here,_ somewhere on the east side of the city, close to the river.

Madara breaks into a run. He's close. He leaps down from the rooftop and lands in the street, his cloak flapping around him. Not much longer now. He scans the plaques and signs on the doorways for the familiar Uchiha crest, heart racing, blood pounding in his ears. Izuna's chakra is burning like a beacon now, and he feels as if the talons of the Susanoo are squeezing his chest, puncturing his lungs and his heart—

Madara chokes on a sob as he runs. There it is. The Uchiha crest is carved underneath the dirty glass panes of the window at the far end of the alley, barely visible in the dimness. But he'd recognize that simmering smoky chakra anywhere, no matter how far he has to travel, no matter how much time passes.

He rearranges his cloak and straightens out his bangs and knocks frantically _—bang-bang-bang-bang-bang—_ on the window pane. "Izuna?" he calls. His voice is shaking. "Izuna, are you there?"

Madara peers into the window. Inside the house, an old gray cat limps over to the door, its tail curling back and forth. It nuzzles against the door, meowing loudly. Soon, another cat joins it, this time an orange tabby with one eye missing. A bell jingles somewhere in some distant room, and out comes a third, black cat, with a red ribbon around its neck.

Out of sight, Izuna's chakra flickers, then gives a faint surge. Slowly, slowly, he comes into view.

He's not dressed in shinobi clothing, Madara notices immediately. He's barefoot, wearing a long kimono with little cat heads on it, and his hair is down to his ankles, tied back in a loose ponytail. He slowly opens the door. His eyes are closed, for reasons that Madara can't discern, and his hand gives a little twitch before he reaches up to cup Madara's chin with gentle, trembling fingers. All of the apologies, the supplications, the pleas for forgiveness that he had frantically thought of on his way to Sora-ku have utterly vanished from his brain, and as he stands in Izuna's parlor, seeing his brother for the first time in over a year, Madara finds himself quite unable to speak.

"Madara?" Izuna whispers. His voice is hoarse, indicating months of disuse. The dam breaks. Madara throws his arms around his brother and cries.

"I'm so sorry," he chokes out at last, holding him as tightly as he can. "Izuna, I'm so sorry."

Very tentatively, Izuna rests one hand in Madara's hair, his cold fingers combing through the unruly tangle.

"Your hair has gotten longer," he says, sounding mildly surprised. He pats Madara on the shoulder as they come apart, Madara furiously wiping his eyes. And then: "What's this?"

He pulls a piece of sycamore bark from Madara's hair, turning it over and over in his fingers.

"Oh," Madara sniffs. "It's nothing. Izuna, it's—it's good to see you."

Izuna doesn't respond right away. Something doesn't feel right here, though he can't put his finger on what. Madara examines Izuna's pale face, a frown tugging at his lips. _Oh,_ he thinks. Izuna looks almost identical to the way he had looked back then, cold and bone-pale and still, lying in his coffin with his hands folded neatly over his chest in gentle surrender. If not for the gentle rise and fall of his chest, he could almost be a corpse. Madara shudders, remembering. And then he realizes—Izuna's eye sockets are hollow and empty, his eyelids draped over nothing like a pair of wrinkled curtains over two dark windows. And then he sees the scars, a scattering of scratches and cuts and shallow little gouges, and even a few that look like the uneven indents left by long fingernails, all around Izuna's forehead and cheeks. Bile rises in Madara's throat. He tears his gloves off with his teeth and shoves them into his pocket, moving on instinct to seize Izuna's shoulders, but draws back, in case Izuna doesn't want to be touched.

"What happened to you?" he cries instead, finding that his hands are shaking. "What happened to your _eyes?"_

Izuna doesn't answer. He bites his lip.

"Oh, no," Madara whispers. "Tell me I didn't."

"Come out of the doorway," Izuna says finally, his voice flat. "You'll let the cats out."

Madara moves into Izuna's warm kitchen, the awful hot lump in his throat swelling. Every cell in his body is overcome with a white-hot, burning rage. The aroma of simmering rice porridge and the vague smell of cats barely feels real at all. For the first time since Izuna's death in his own world, he feels the overwhelming urge to fight, to inflict unfathomable pain upon this monster who has hurt his brother so badly, to make him _hurt_ , not caring how badly he gets hurt in return.

"I'll kill him," he whispers, his breath coming shallow and fast. "I'll _kill_ him."

Izuna's jaw clenches. He swallows. "Madara," he says, quietly.

His brother's voice brings him back to his senses. Enormous blue blossoms of chakra are flaring up around his feet, sending indigo sparks scattering around the room. Madara's hair is floating around his face in black clouds, and as Izuna reaches out for his shoulder, a great flicker of electricity jumps between them. He takes a long breath in, then lets it out. The blue flames recede back into the floor. Gradually, his hair settles.

"Let me take your cloak," Izuna says, unclasping it from Madara's shoulders. He slowly brings it over to the hook by the door and hangs it up.

"I'm sorry," Madara says carefully, glancing once more at the scars around Izuna's eye sockets. "I didn't mean to—I must have brought back some bad memories for you, didn't I."

Once more, Izuna doesn't answer. He hovers by the entrance to the kitchen, twisting his fingers together. "You're not from this world, are you?" he says instead.

Madara's mouth falls open. "No," he says at last. "I'm not."

He supposes he shouldn't be surprised. Izuna always was uncannily perceptive towards matters like these. But the resemblance to the Izuna he had once known ends there. Where the old Izuna had been loud, boisterous, larger-than-life, this one is timid, docile, small. It makes Madara's chest hurt. He wonders just how many of this Izuna's misfortunes are his own fault, and prays that the Izuna he had known in his old world had not felt like this on the inside because of him.

Madara shakes himself. "I need your help," he says. "Hashirama told me to come. I'm trying to get back to my own world."

"I might be able to help you," Izuna says, his face brightening somewhat. "Come and sit down. Let me show you what I have."

"You're taking this rather well," Madara says, impressed.

Izuna shrugs. "I've dealt with worse things," he says, going over to the little closet behind the kitchen. He emerges with an armful of yellowing scrolls. As he comes closer, Madara notices the pattern of mottled, craterlike burn scars running up his forearms. He bites the inside of his cheek.

"So," Izuna says, gently setting the scrolls down on the counter, "What do you want to know?"

"Anything on space-time ninjutsu," Madara says quickly, "or really, anything I was working on before I left. I don't know. I just need to start somewhere."

"Well, then, start here," Izuna suggests, passing him a scroll off the top of the pile. Madara unties the red twine and unfurls it. He recognizes its contents as part of the message inscribed on the Uchiha tablet—the part that he hadn't been able to translate. This translation reads:

 _When someone who possesses the power of Saṃsāra approaches the moon, the eye will open that is reflected on the moon to grant the eternal dream…_

"This is my handwriting," Madara says, fingertips brushing over the brittle parchment. "You kept my old notes?"

Izuna nods. "I saved everything that I thought you might need," he says. "I don't know how much of it will be of use to you, but…"

"Indra's holy bones, Izuna, you're a godsend," says Madara, lifting the scroll up to take a closer look. The other Madara's handwriting is a little neater than his own, and a little flashier; the sharp upward strokes give each character a slightly slanted appearance. He frowns. It's jarring to look at his own handwriting and see words that he has no recollection of writing. _Eternal dream_ in particular sounds vaguely foreboding.

Izuna's face lights up. "I have more," he says. "Check the wardrobe."

Madara rolls up the scroll and goes to look. It's as if he's looking into his old closet; he moves aside several old pairs of sandals, a very worn and patched-up cloak, and two faded old mantles, astounded at the effort Izuna has put into keeping it all organized. There's a scarlet wooden mask with carved tengu-like features, and underneath that, a dusty object that he recognizes as his old falconry glove and stirrups. On the small shelf above the row of coat hooks, he discovers more treasures—a pair of gleaming kunai, rolls of bandages, shuriken, a basket full of smoke bombs, a box of incense sticks and candles—he's even kept a half-empty jar of leather polish. Madara pockets it, rather touched. He comes back to the kitchen.

"I remember reading this one, a long time ago, although I didn't know what it meant," Izuna is saying, running his thumb over the binding of a thick scroll with fraying silk edges. " _Seeking stability,"_ he recites, _"one god split into yin and yang; it is these opposing forces, light and dark, operating together—"_

"— _that give rise to all things in creation,"_ Madara finishes. "I remember. I get the feeling that whatever is going on in this world, the other me is at the very center of it."

"I'm afraid you're right," Izuna says. Madara takes a deep breath. He feels faint. He sways on his feet, quickly gripping the edge of the table for support. Black spots are dancing in front of his eyes. He sits down with a clatter, rubbing his temples. He hopes Izuna won't notice.

Izuna is onto him in an instant. "Madara?" he says sharply. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Madara says. His voice comes out weaker than he had intended.

Izuna frowns. "When did you last eat?"

The question throws him off guard. He honestly can't remember. "Yesterday?" he says. He squints. "Two days ago, maybe? Is it past midnight yet?"

Izuna stands up from the table. "Stay where you are," he says. He crouches next to the stove and very carefully blows a little stream of flame at the front burner. "Tea?" he says, getting a pot of water ready.

"I—I can make it," Madara says, going to stand up. "Don't bother—"

Izuna reaches over and places a surprisingly firm hand on his shoulder. "Just sit." He feels around on the counter for the teabags, then lifts the lid of the simmering pot of rice that's already on the stove. Two of the cats emerge around the corner, meowing curiously at all the activity. One of them, the one-eyed tabby, climbs up into Madara's lap and curls up into a nearly perfect circle. He scratches behind its ears and fails to bite back a smile as it begins to purr softly.

Izuna brings over a platter with two steaming bowls and two hot mugs of tea. "Here," he says, passing him one chipped bowl. "Okayu."

Madara accepts it with a muttered "thanks." He raises the bowl to his lips, then pauses.

Izuna seems to notice. "You're not eating," he says.

Madara stares into the bowl of okayu, feeling tears prickling in the corners of his eyes yet again. "Why do you still care so much for me?" he says. "I've caused you nothing but misfortune, and yet you still—"

"You haven't caused me any misfortune," Izuna says. "We just met today, remember."

"Even so," Madara says, staring down at the pile of scrolls on the floor. _I let you die in the other world,_ he thinks. Something else occurs to him then. He puts his bowl aside, frowning.

"Izuna?" he says.

"Yes?" Izuna replies, in barely more than a whisper.

Madara takes a long sip of tea before continuing. "How did you know I wasn't from this world?"

"Well, I did master sage jutsu," Izuna says softly. "I can tell these things."

"You're a _sage?"_ Madara exclaims, setting his teacup down with a loud _clack_. "Izuna, that's amazing!"

"There really wasn't much to it," Izuna says, squirming uncomfortably in the chair. "Some of the ninneko helped me." He bows his head for a moment, and when he surfaces, there are red and white markings around his eyes and his nose, looking like a set of matching whiskers and stripes.

Madara beams into his okayu. Of _course_ his brother would be a cat sage. Izuna ducks his head again, and his sage markings fade away.

"What was I like in this world?" Madara says. "Why did I change? Why did I abandon the village?"

Izuna sets down his mug, thinking hard.

"I don't think you did change," he says, and Madara's heart sinks horribly. "You were always like this—always reaching for the top. It was inevitable, I think, that the village could no longer contain you. The clan trusted you, and I trusted you to do what was best for the clan."

The gray cat leaps up and sits in Izuna's lap. He strokes it absentmindedly.

"And you always _did_ do what was best for the clan. Even when it hurt." He pauses, shivering slightly.

Madara glances down at a small red scroll bearing the instructions for unlocking the eternal Mangekyou sharingan.

"I know there's no point in trying to apologize," he says slowly, mentally tracing the harsh brushstrokes until each one is ingrained in his memory. He looks up across the table at his brother, pale and demure, holding his mug of tea with trembling fingers. "Izuna, believe me, I would go blind a thousand times over if I could somehow get you your eyes back."

"You did what needed to be done," Izuna says dully, setting down his tea. "It's all right."

" _No!"_ Madara cries. "It is _not_ all right, Izuna! I can't let you just—"

"It is an honor to serve the Uchiha clan and my elder brother," Izuna cuts in. "These eyes were a small price to pay."

"Is that what I told you when I took them?" Madara cries. "And you _listened_ to me?"

Izuna shakes his head. "Madara, enough. I've already forgiven you."

"You don't _have_ to forgive me!" Madara cries. "You _deserve_ to be upset! I did something terrible, and you took the fall for it!"

Izuna doesn't answer. He keeps stroking the gray cat.

"Big brothers," Madara says, "are supposed to protect their siblings. I have failed you in every possible way." He bows his head. "Izuna, I am so sorry. If only—"

A flurry of movement out the window catches his eye. Madara gapes. It's the same pitch-black, oozing, humanoid being he had spotted off Hashirama's balcony, and at the shrine. The instant it appears, he feels a wave of that now-familiar dark, rotting chakra wash over him. The other Madara's chakra feels _infinitely_ worse now that he knows what he did to Izuna in this world. He clutches his head, groaning.

"What is it?" says Izuna.

"Nothing," Madara says. He lets out a long, slow breath, and wipes the blood from his nose. "I think I'm being followed."

Izuna's mouth forms a solemn line. "By whom?" he says, barely moving his lips

Madara glances out the window once more. One of the red lanterns across the street has gone out. "I'm not sure," he admits, staring at his pale reflection in the dirty glass. "This whole world has thrown me off. I'm not sensing things correctly. I don't think it's human." He gulps down the last of his tea. "Whatever it is, it followed me from my own world. And I'm certain that it's connected to—the other Madara. That thing might be my best shot at him."

Izuna looks paler than usual.

"It could be a trap," he says.

Madara scoffs. "And?"

"Madara, he's…he's unbelievably powerful," Izuna says, gripping his forearm arm with one pale hand.

Madara raises one eyebrow. "So am I," he says. "There are things more important than power, you know."

Izuna bites his lip. "Still," he says.

"Listen to me," Madara says, putting his hands on Izuna's shoulders. "I will go to the ends of heaven and earth for you, Izuna. I will defy death and reason, I will protect you with all my might. I love you, more than I can say. I _swear_ I will defeat him."

Izuna sits there in shocked silence, lips parted slightly, grip loosening on his sleeve.

"Come on," Madara says. "Let me just be your big brother for a moment.

He takes Izuna's hand and leads him outside. At the end of the alley, the wind whistles through the paper-thin cracks in the buildings; and grit and sand fly in their faces. Sora-ku stands before them, dim and dark and dilapidated, and for the first time in a long time, Madara looks up at the stars and feels at peace with himself and his resolve. Finally, _finally,_ he feels as if he is working towards something worthwhile.

Izuna is shivering. "Here," Madara says, and removes his cloak, wrapping it tightly around Izuna's shoulders. "Better?"

Izuna nods, the tiniest of smiles gracing his pale face. They sit in silence for a while.

"We used to do this a lot," Madara says presently, "sneak outside the compound to get away from everything. We'd talk for hours."

"That sounds nice," Izuna says, "just talking."

"When you were little," Madara gazes at the horizon, remembering, "I would tell you stories, you know, to get you to fall asleep." He laughs. "Of course, I was young then too, so none of them were very good, but…"

Izuna lifts his head very slightly. "What kinds of stories?" he says.

"Oh, just whatever was on my mind, really," Madara says. "Talking birds, and forest spirits, and moon magic, and one about a travelling band of dancing cats—you were especially fond of the dancing cats," he says. Izuna laughs. "We both grew out of them at some point, I suppose."

Madara looks up at the sky, no longer so concerned with the cold. The more he watches, the more stars he seems to notice. It seems almost impossible that the night sky can hold so many of them all at once. Madara feels very small. Izuna leans up against Madara's shoulder, his breath quiet in Madara's ear.

"And then, when you got hurt," Madara says, "very badly, years ago now, I told you one more story. I had never felt so helpless. I needed to do _something_ to ease your pain, no matter how insignificant it was. But then you—you—"

Izuna's folded hands spasm in his lap. "I died," he says quietly, "didn't I."

A shooting star makes its glittering arc across the sky. Madara nods.

"There are so many things I wish I could have told you," he says, cursing his voice for breaking. "So many little moments I wish we could have shared. After we founded the village, I thought I would feel better, but most days I just miss you more and more."

"Tell me about the village in your world," Izuna says, resting his chin in his hands in a manner painfully reminiscent of the old Izuna.

"Oh, it's—it's wonderful," Madara says, realizing, with an almost divine moment of clarity, just how wonderful it is. "I wish I could bring you back and show you. Oh, Izuna, you would have loved it. One of the first things Hashirama did was designate a huge swath of the forest for a nature preserve. He's got all sorts of rare plants in there—he's been growing these carnivorous flowers recently, as big around as umbrellas, and the leaves are so sharp that you can cut yourself on them—and the animals! Enormous wild cats with claws like meat hooks, and great big eagles the size of warships, and all sorts of snails and worms and frogs and salamanders and other little creatures like that—Hashirama has taken a liking to those little snails recently," Madara says, smiling as he remembers.

"And there's an enormous botanic garden just outside the Academy," he continues. "We just had the Winter Solstice festival there, so all the lanterns are still strung up. I feel like I'm walking through a field of stars every time I leave the Academy after dark. Oh—and the aviary is really something; all kinds of hawks and owls and crows and ravens, just the smartest birds you could imagine—there's this one fish hawk, Kishiko I think her name is—she'd kill me if she knew I had forgotten her name," Madara laughs. "She just came to us from Kirigakure, and she has the most exquisite golden eyes.

"There's a cat shelter, right at the entrance to the Uchiha district," he continues, watching Izuna's smile widen ever-so-slightly. "Hikaku's in charge of it right now, but most everyone from the clan stops by to volunteer; they take such good care of those cats.

"And we have a cat that lives in the office—she was a stray originally, and she took a liking to me as we were building the Academy, but when I brought her home to my house she ran away. Well, naturally we all thought she was gone forever, but one day we came into the office and there she was, curled up in that very sunny spot on the windowsill just behind the Hokage's desk—you know the spot, right? You would love her, Izuna, she's such a sweet lady." He grins. "I feed her Tobirama's fish sometimes, but I don't think he's figured that out yet."

Madara looks down at Izuna, whose chest is rising and falling so peacefully, he thinks he might have fallen asleep. He continues, in a softer voice:

"And Kagami's aunts just opened a senbei shop—it's a tiny little place, but the sweets are divine, and last I heard, they're working on building an addition. And the dumpling shop is always worth a visit—it's near the offices, so I end up dragging Hashirama there for lunch at least twice a week—and the sushi shop is quite good too; once the alliance with Kiri made a bit more headway, the tuna got a lot fresher.

"Oh!" he says, remembering more details. "And the clan has its own tavern—I haven't been in a while, but Naori started a band a few months after the truce, and we have live music every other Friday—you like sweet drinks still, don't you?"

"I don't really drink," Izuna admits, stirring slightly, "but I do like sweet things."

Madara puts his arm around him, pulling him a bit closer. How he wishes he could pluck Izuna out of this world and place him gently in his own. He thinks of the village again, warm and bright and beautiful; and he thinks of the smell of frying food, and the carefree, easy music of street performers, and families laughing, and children playing; and then he remembers being so lonely it felt like dying, despite all of it right there in front of him, and then feeling worse and worse at his own self-imposed isolation. He wants to belong so _badly._

"You're allowed to be a part of the village, you know," Izuna says softly, as if he's read Madara's mind.

"I know," Madara says, surprised to find that he's crying.

"Thank you, Madara," Izuna says softly, resting his head on Madara's shoulder.

Madara wipes his eyes with his sleeve. "For what?"

"I had hoped you would come back someday," Izuna says, "so I could be useful to you one last time."

* * *

 _Rabbit. Boar. Ram._

Madara examines his hands. He doesn't feel any different after making the handsigns, although he can't see why the jutsu wouldn't have worked. But he isn't done just yet, he thinks as he steps into the desert and begins his long journey back to the village. He can't leave this world—leave _Izuna—_ like this. He needs to make one final stop before he sets off for good. He just hopes he's given himself enough time.


End file.
